"Prosser."
Kydd slumped in amazement. "That—that gib-faced shicer? In God's name, why?"
"To achieve his step as an officer."
"An' who was th' other?"
"The principal was Carthew. In a fit of jealous rage he paid a smuggler to land the chest and used Prosser to falsify your orders. Simple, really."
Kydd shook his head in wonder. "That any should be s' low." He turned to Renzi. "Nicholas, how did ye . . . ?"
"Oh, merely the application of common logic, and when I enquired it of him he most readily admitted the act. You will find his written confession here, the name of the smuggler, and as well he has agreed to testify against Carthew."
Speechless, Kydd could only gaze at him in admiration. "Then— then this means . . ."
"It is over, dear friend. With this evidence your reinstatement will be a matter of formality only, and remembering the particular kindness Sir James Saumarez had for you, I would not be in the least surprised to find him especially anxious to make up in some handsome way for what you have suffered." Stretching out lazily, he continued, "And from henceforth your new fortune will set you in the first rank of society, never more to concern yourself with trifles as we mortals must. Not forgetting that your means now will bring you influence and power, perhaps a seat in parliament? It were folly for the Admiralty to ignore such a one."
Kydd listened quietly, then grinned. "O' course, Nicholas, if life in a pawky brig-sloop doesn't please ye any more, I shall have t' find a new clerk . . ."
It took another brandy before conversation could resume.
With a triumphant flourish Kydd waved the evidence in the air. "Who'd have thought it? I hold in m' hands just a few squiddy papers, but they're enough t' see me back in command o' dear Teazer !" His eyes shone.
"And a nemesis for the wrongdoer!" Renzi added.
"Aye," Kydd said, his voice hardening. "Carthew doesn't know it yet but he's found out, an' I'm about t' choke his luff with this'n! I'll now have my revenge on him, th' dog!"
Renzi gave a saintly smile. "A court-martial and dismissal with disgrace from His Majesty's Navy, scorn and contempt at all levels and no hope whatsoever of being received by polite society ever again. And, of course, little prospect of employment by any who value probity in character."
The smile grew wider. "If, of course, you wish to cast him into damages then you must add penury to his suffering."
"Enough!" Kydd rose to his feet. "I'm goin' t' Saumarez— now!"
Renzi gave a little laugh, which he tried to smother.
"What?" Kydd grated.
"Oh, nothing. Just the irony of a privateer's revenge setting a right true sea officer back into His Majesty's Service."
Author's Note
THE ANCIENT CASTLE OF MONT ORGUEIL still lies at the head of Gorey Bay in Jersey. The curious may wish to visit and pace the stone floors of the rooms from which Commodore (later Admiral) Philippe d'Auvergne ran La Correspondance in those desperate days two hundred years ago. They might then desire to mount the old battlements for the thrilling view of the coast of France, as countless sentries and others have done over the centuries since Good Queen Bess. I would recommend the trip; there have been few of my research locations that have proved so little changed and so genuinely atmospheric.
In fact the Channel Islands are fascinating indeed. St Peter Port is rightly said to be as prime a Georgian city as Bath or Weymouth, and a brisk walk up Grange Road will allow the interested to view the splendours of the residences built by successful privateers and grand merchants. The original harbour remains, but within the embrace of a much larger modern edifice; however the fearful sea hazards of dizzying tidal currents and the maze of submerged rocks still have the power to chill.
For the inhabitants of the Norman Isles, as fiercely independent as ever, the loyal toast will always be to the Duke of Normandy. They revere those who have loomed large in their thousand-year history, perhaps none more than Admiral Sir James Saumarez, a grave figure whose integrity and sensitivity ensured that he would always stand in the shadow of other, more colourful commanders. I was gratified to learn recently that there are plans for his memorial, dynamited by the German army, to be restored.
Philippe d'Auvergne's story is a less happy one: at the end of the war, exhausted and in debt, he crossed Europe to enter into his princely inheritance—only to have it bartered away by the Great Powers in the readjustment of borders after Waterloo. He died days later.
As usual, I owe a debt of gratitude to three women without whom there would be no books: my creative partner and wife, Kathy; my literary agent, Carole Blake; and my editor, Alex Bonham. I've consulted many in the Islands, and I apologise for not naming them all. However I would be remiss in not mentioning Dr Gregory Stevens Cox, whose peerless work on the period started me on my quest and whose personal tours stripped away the layers of years; the Lt Governor of Guernsey, Sir Fabian Malbon, who as an admiral and commander-in-chief himself shares my respect for Sir James; and Captain Eric Gill, the Queen's harbour master, whose insightful observations on navigation in those waters informed my writing. My thanks are due, too, to Captain A. J. Holland, Nicholas Gold, Peter de Sausmarez and the staff of the Priaulx Library.
I do hope you enjoyed this story: in the next book Kydd will be sailing into shoal waters of quite another kind . . .